Motherhood..."That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger..." (umm...right?!)

Thursday, 20 November 2008

"Are You There Natasha? This Is Your Life Calling You...Would Like A Word"

You know, there is a good reason I call this blog 'MoaningMum'...a very good reason. I often wonder whether I will one day read back all these accounts of my (non) extraordinary life and think wistfully that they were the best years (many people tell me so). Alas, if indeed mankind ever invents time-travel then i'm sure that the future incarnation of myself will try and come back and alert me to this truth so that I can make the most of it and not squander away whole weeks and months in ill-disguised despair and utter lethargy. But until that happens, I'm going to stick with my story: life as a mother is hard, hard, hard, and if you are the sort of person who desires - indeed requires - 'alone time', then you are buggered.

This morning I awoke to the song, "You've Got the Love" on our DAB radio alarm clock. It's a great tune - a catchy and upbeat, yet soulful lament to the difficulty of life and needing some supernatural help. If the makers of "Sex and the City" hadn't pinched it for the theme song of the last episode ever, then I think I would have tried to claim it for my own. Now however, visions of a fictional 'Carrie Bradshaw' strutting through the streets of New York in Manalos bears so little resemblance to my pained everyday shuffle that it kind of ruins it for me.

This morning I had yet another emergency dental appointment (I am thinking of just buying shares in the place as at this rate I am fast becoming 'patient of the month' and I expect there to be a newly instated state of the art plasma tv and sound system courtesy of moi when they get done with me (sigh). Anyway, Egg was off from school with a bad cold and Dumps was his usual adorably naughty self, and I once again had no choice but to leave them, unsupervised, in the waiting room with three disgruntled older men and a harassed-looking receptionist. They made such a din that they could be heard over the drill and the hygenist slammed the door shut with impatience mid-way through the treatment. For my part, I just lay there like a slab of poor-grade meat and contemplated all the problems I am facing right now. (They are too numerous to mention and being of little interest to even me - merely an annoyance - I can't expect anyone else would find them even mildly interesting.)

Nonetheless, I can't whinge on about it now as our cleaning lady is here and I can hear screams of delight from Egg as he gleefully unplugs the hoover for the millionth time - causing work to come to a standstill yet again and me to exhale with fatigue. You know that expression 'climbing the walls'? Well Egg is literally doing so. He has mounted the wall radiator and is whooping from the top near the ceiling yelling for me to help him down.

He better hope I do so before the central heating comes on as otherwise it will be a nasty surprise. And of course now Dumpie is climbing alongside him, trying to show off for his brother and I am glumly staring at the floor wondering exactly how hurt they would be if they fell off. Currently I am so shattered and burdened that I want nothing more than to curl up in bed and fall asleep...for days. The bonus would be that not only would I awake revitalized and ready to tackle my headstrong little monsters, but I'd also be skinny as a rail and could delicately pick my way down the street with an insouciance that might make me resemble more a creative artist than an ad for someone who shops at Iceland.

As I sign off, I vaguely wonder whether I care enough to wait until the cleaning lady leaves for a medicinal glass of wine. I decide i DO care and so shall herd the rugrats into another room where they can set about undoing any benefit that having a cleaning lady affords.

Feeling hugely sorry for myself, this is 'Moaning Mum'....signing off.

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ABOUT ME...

I am a well-intentioned but frequently disillusioned wife and mother, cathartically blogging about the daily frustrations of raising three(!) boys (Egg 12, Dumpie 10, and Squitty 'the baby' 5...) whilst trying to forge a career in music.
As a frustrated artist, domestic slave, and hardcore fashionista , life is a constant struggle of trying not to lose the plot whilst keeping a sense of self.
Throw in a husband who also refuses to "grow up", wonderfully dysfunctional family and friends, and you get a shambolic household that shouldn't work - but somehow does.
These domestic adventures and random observations of the world at large (fueled in part by excessive daily intake of chocolate and caffeine) are contained herein. Welcome to my world...